The 11th drops in on Sherlock Holmes
by jessnutt
Summary: Sherlock, in the middle of following up some unknown lead, has an unexpected encounter with a most unusual stranger. (Post-Reichenbach.) (For continuity with the Sherlock universe, pre-Snowmen. Probably mid-PondLife.)
1. Chapter 1 - The 11th Drops In

I'm brand new to all this, so as far as feedback goes the more the merrier! I'm a dabbler, so here's a simple little sample of some Sherlock/Who dabbling. Enjoy.

* * *

Sherlock eased across the floor, icy eyes flitting around the room as he absorbed every detail. A floorboard creaked under one boot. The detective paused, and slowly revolved on the spot. Corner of the rug turned up. Left wall bleached by the sun. Window bolted. Dirt marks by the door. The empty room burst at the seams with silence.

A loud snap and a shower of dust caused Sherlock to leap back. An explosive crash heralded a cascade of debris as a section of the ceiling splintered without warning. Cement and plaster slammed onto the hardwood at his feet, and the floor groaned ominously beneath the wreckage rumbling to a halt. A cloud of dust billowed across the room as the echoes of the collapse were swallowed again by silence. Sherlock's chest heaved beneath his coat.

"Well," rang a cheerful voice, "that landing wasn't quite as I'd hoped. But all the same."

Aquamarine eyes narrowed.

A tall figure stumbled forth from the rubble, swiping at his dirty shoulders. Tweed-clad shoulders. Black pants, dusty now, and black boots teamed up with suspenders and a dress shirt to clothe a lanky and slightly awkward figure. A crimson bowtie sat askew beneath a strong chin. Thick hair curled in a chestnut tidal wave, sweeping down into hazel eyes.

As Sherlock blinked in surprise, a look of great frustration crossed the newcomer's face while he threw his hands in the air. "I've lost my fez. _Again_. And that one was given to me by Laurence of Arabia!"

Sherlock, for once, was speechless.

"Well, by given, I mean tossed, and by tossed, I mean hurled… oh, never mind." It was then that the stranger took note of the detective. "Oh! Hello! Is this your house?" The friendly smile faded into abashed concern. "I…may have damaged your roof. A bit."

Sherlock had more than regained his composure. "I do not live here, no. And neither do you. Although it was nice of you to…drop by. Do tell, who are you?" While he spoke, his wintry eyes were busy, flicking across the dusty new arrival. Smooth jacket: unarmed. Bowtie: tacky rebellion. Watch: wealthy; scratches and wear: active. Plus suspenders and tweed jacket: possibly artist, professor, shameless performer, or recently returned from a clumsy formal event. Shoes well worn: frequent running, likely cause being regular tardiness. Face: late twenties, which rules out professor – but the eyes… Sherlock frowned ever so slightly. Something was amiss.

"I'm the Doctor." He rocked slightly onto the balls of his feet as he said it. "Here to help."

Sherlock was unimpressed. "Doctor who?"

A knowing smile danced above the bowtie. "Just 'The Doctor.'" He hesitated a half beat before clapping his hands together and gazing about. "Now then! This house. The Gonsurvian herd undoubtedly came through this house." The Doctor moved to the window, trailed a finger along the windowsill, reversed and hurried to examine the wall on the opposite end of the room.

Sherlock crossed his arms and watched. Internally his mind raced furiously. This character made no sense at all. The detective glanced upward, examining the ragged hole in the ceiling. Impact, not an explosion, had caused the collapse. "What are you looking for?" he asked idly.

The Doctor's nose was inches from the wallpaper. "Something…spacey-wacey," he mused absently. "Which… you!"

Abruptly, he turned and paced towards Sherlock. The detective shifted his weight, a barely perceptible change, but every muscle was humming with tension. The Doctor's focus had shifted to him completely. "Why did you come here?" he muttered, peering closely at the Londoner.

A long silver gadget appeared in the Doctor's hand from the depths of the tweed jacket. Sherlock stared at the device, unable to discern its purpose. A gun here would have been obvious. This man, however, was unequivocally choosing absurd alternatives to the obvious. It was an undeniably fascinating puzzle.

Without warning, the end flared lime green and the instrument produced a pulsing, high-pitched buzz. Sherlock braced himself for some kind of attack, but felt nothing but bewilderment as the Doctor waved the thing at him from head to toe. With a flourish and a straightening of the bowtie, the dusty visitor clicked off the gadget and carefully examined the handle. "Nope… definitely human," he mumbled.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and gave the Doctor an arch half-smile. "Well, I'm glad that has been cleared up."

Oblivious to the comment, the Doctor paced, tapping his chin with his silver tool in thought, but the sound of a car crunching up the gravel drive drew Sherlock to the window. The detective devoted a full half second to taking in the pertinent details: sparkling black sedan, recently washed and waxed, obscured plates, sunken back wheel well, tinted windows rolled up. A government official had arrived with a heavy object in the trunk.

That was most definitely his cue. Sherlock turned on his heel and, making one last visual sweep of the room, bowed slightly towards the Doctor. "I believe I'm on my way out. A pleasure meeting you."

"And you," huffed the Doctor distractedly.

Sherlock's mouth quirked in another half-smile. "No, it wasn't." And with that he strode from the room.

As soon as he stepped into the hall, the detective halted. Every instinct spurred him to leave, leave, leave, but the irritating itch of an unsolved enigma could not be ignored. He regarded the doctor over his shoulder for a moment. "Well?" Sherlock said shortly. "Aren't you coming?"


	2. Chapter 2 - An Untimely Arrival

I'd never envisioned writing a second chapter, and I never had a clue where this was going, but I decided it might be fun. Still have no clue where this is going, so do tell me what your ideas are re what comes next!

* * *

Sherlock drummed his fingers lightly on the table. The townhouse opposite was quiet, and Londoners hustled by, indifferent behind their upturned coat collars. Gray fog meandered by the window and dulled the detective's view.

The waiter approached his table, saw the untouched coffee cup, and retreated. Sherlock had barely registered the delivery of the drink, let alone the administrations of the waiter. The café was a convenient stakeout position, the coffee a payment for his stay; food served no purpose while he was on a case.

And a complicated case it was. One to be handled delicately. Sherlock had been more than discreet since he had feigned his death, but it appeared his measures were insufficient. He had been closing Moriarty's loose ends one by one, but their disappearance had aroused suspicion among the dwindling handful, and the desperate criminals remaining were banding together as they felt the noose tighten.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, just a hair, as a perfectly bridled wave of anger rolled through him. Three different men had entered the building over the course of the last hour. They were there, the detective knew, to set a trap for one John Watson, on the assumption that if Sherlock were alive, his friend would know. A poor assumption, obviously: a convincing alibi would never have been successfully maintained if John were privy to it.

No one ever thought of Molly.

Even if John had had information to provide, there was no way the impending appointment was going to end well for him, leaving the detective no choice but to intervene. Besides, while it would come at the expense of revealing himself, Sherlock would catch the deadliest four remaining disciples of his arch rival. Mr. Durham, Mr. Green, and Ms. Frasier had all arrived. The detective awaited the appearance of the final player, Mr. McIlroy. The most infamous of them all.

But the tall individual strolling up the street was not Mr. McIlroy. The stranger was long, all elbows, with a bouncy stride, and he paused at the door to the townhouse. Sherlock leaned forward ever so slightly. What on earth was that coat made out of?

And then it hit him.

Tweed.

The detective leapt out of his chair. He snatched up his coat and dashed out onto the street, just as the man slipped inside the townhouse. Sherlock didn't waste a second. He darted across the road, cracked open the door and examined the staircase inside. Dimly lit and rarely used, the wooden steps creaked under the worn black shoes of the stranger.

"Doctor." Sherlock gently pushed the door open all the way.

The figure whirled on the stair. "Hush, I'm – Oh!" Luscious brown hair bounced as he looked about. "What did you say?" he stage-whispered.

Sherlock gestured for the stranger to return. After a moment's hesitation, he obeyed, hopping down the stairs two at a time.

"The last thing I have yet to discern is where you fit in this puzzle, 'Doctor,'" Sherlock said once the pair were safely outside.

"Puzzles!" The Doctor lit up with child-like delight. "I do love a good puzzle, but I must go at the moment." He smiled distractedly. "There was a thing, and an explosion, and then something wibbly-wobbly…"

"Doctor." The detective was impatient. "I know about the meeting, and one member is still missing. There is nowhere for any one of us to be just yet."

The Doctor frowned. "Meeting?"

Sherlock cut to the chase. "Why are you here?"

"It's a long story," the Doctor mused, "with many wibbly bits in, but I've lost two things of great importance." His expression darkened, and Sherlock was struck by his sudden intensity. "I intend to have them back." The moment was fleeting, and the Doctor's cordial façade was instantly back. "I don't believe I got your name."

"Smith, John Smith," Sherlock said offhandedly. "We met when you fell through the roof."

The Doctor seemed inwardly amused. "John Smith, is it? Good name, John Smith…" A sudden look of confusion took over. "Hold on, fell through what roof?"

The detective was visibly frustrated. "The roof, the house in Crickhowell, Wales; you broke through the roof in pursuit of some Gonsurvian herd."

"Through a roof! Blimey, Did it hurt? I can only recall one time when I fell through a roof…but I wasn't in Crickhowell. That day didn't end all that well."

"You are Doctor...what exactly?"

"Just the Doctor. You see, my life is sort of… out of order, and…" The Doctor looked tentatively at Sherlock, who was clearly not amused. "Again, long story. Pleasure to meet you Mr. Smith, but I really must be off."

The Doctor leaned in to give a pair of cheek kisses to the rigid detective.

Right then, right over the tweed clad shoulder, Sherlock locked eyes with Mr. McIlroy.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Other Doctor

Honestly, I'm completely making this up as I go along... cheers for bearing with!

* * *

As the Doctor bent politely, the moment swelled, and time (as it were) halted, just for a nanosecond.

Sherlock blinked.

John Watson must already be inside. McIlroy had approached with the utmost confidence, meaning he was not looking for Watson, meaning his prey was already ensnared. Meaning Sherlock was somehow, ever so briefly, behind the game. His friend was in immediate dire danger. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as a reformed plan instantaneously snapped together.

And then the moment shattered.

"Holmes!" McIlroy thundered. A gnarled hand lashed towards the detective.

The Doctor turned, befuddled. "Holmes? Who's – "

Clawing fingers snatched the Doctor's coat instead. "Hey!" he cried. "That's my best bow tie!"

Sherlock wheeled and slammed open the door to the townhouse. Without preamble he leapt up the stairs. McIlroy's heavy boots thudded after him. Sounds of the Doctor's indignant rambling carried in from outside.

Top of the stairs. Sherlock glanced at the landing – dusty. Without halting he whirled and pounded up the next flight.

"_Holmes!_" McIlroy's voice echoed in the stairwell.

Next landing. A quick visual sweep informed Sherlock that this was the one. Judging by the markings, they'd dragged something heavy across the threshold.

The detective wasted no time throwing open the door, simultaneously drawing a gun.

The three Moriarty associates were standing idly about the room, but all were stunned by Sherlock's sudden appearance. The moment's hesitation was what the detective had been counting on.

And, of course, John Watson was there too, bound impolitely to a chair and looking quite peaky.

Without missing a beat, Sherlock swept across to Mr. Durham, swiftly striking him across the jaw and driving him to the floor. He whirled, fired a shot purposefully wide of Ms. Frasier, and danced across just in time to block a swing from Mr. Green. Feint, counter, one-two and kick, and the man had joined Mr. Durham on the floor. Silver glittered as a knife flickered close, but Sherlock contemptuously knocked the blade aside, reaching gracefully around to clamp Ms. Frasier in a tight headlock.

Mr. McIlroy huffed into the doorway, but Sherlock's gun was already trained on his sternum.

A hush fell over the room. Each player stared about angrily, absolutely still, as they caught their breath. The groan of one of the downed men on the floor seemed achingly loud.

"Alright, John?" Sherlock said calmly. His eyes never left McIlroy's face.

There was no reply. McIlroy's heavy breathing filled the musty room as he stared malevolently at his adversary from the doorway. A floorboard creaked beneath Ms. Frasier, who was shifting her weight anxiously behind the detective's elbow.

"John?" Sherlock's wintry eyes flicked sidelong towards the captive.

John Watson was in complete shock.

A dark bruise was spread across one cheek, beneath a ragged gash just above one eyebrow. Blood had spilled onto his torn shirt in a sticky stain. His arms and legs were trussed tightly to the chair with electric cables, cutting viciously into his skin.

His round face was deathly white as he stared at Sherlock Holmes, mouth working silently.

A deep buzzing noise sounded out, slicing through the tension like an angry electronic bee. Sherlock's head whipped round. A shimmer of digital light blinked and vanished, leaving behind an utterly bizarre figure.

This was one alternative the detective had to admit he never saw coming.

The new arrival was barely five feet tall, but he was built like a beach ball of solid rock. He was dressed head to toe in some kind of black jumpsuit, which ended in a wide plastic ring around his neck. Or what passed for his neck. The head and neck were smeared together in an absurd dome, dark brown in color, and completely hideous.

"A worthy attempt, human scum!" the little man bellowed cordially. "A worthy attempt! But you have been foiled."

Sherlock backed to John's side, dragging his squirming hostage. "I would not go so far."

The newcomer's voice darkened. "Release the hostage and face me, coward!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that," Sherlock said evenly. He whirled to the far side of John's chair, dragging Ms. Frasier in his wake and switching hands. The gun found her temple just as her knife appeared in his spare hand. With one quick movement the detective reached down and slashed the cables restraining his friend.

John slumped unceremoniously to the floor.

The knife blurred to Ms. Frasier's throat and the barrel of the gun stared down Mr. McIlroy once again.

"You will release her, boy!" the short, egg-headed man cried, leveling a weapon of sorts at the detective. It was a big, ugly thing, lights blinking along its heavy metal length.

Sherlock was about to reply when a fresh flash of digital light and bass, angry buzzing flared again behind the strange newcomer. Sherlock blinked incredulously as the Doctor appeared, swinging a cricket bat. He thoroughly whacked the back of the stranger's nonexistent brown neck, and the short creature dropped like a stone, thunking heavily on the hardwood.

"Probic vent!" the Doctor said delightedly. "Works every time!"

His face fell as he took in the scene before him. A long silence stretched while he frowned at Sherlock. "I don't take violence well." His voice was quiet.

"Who are you?" snarled Mr. McIlroy.

"Someone quite cross with you," the Doctor growled, stalking over to where he stood. "You struck a deal with Sontarans. To what end I have no idea. But I can guarantee you they had no intention of letting Earth go on 'undefeated.'" He said the last word slowly, chewing each syllable and spitting it out. "They are not to be trifled with."

"Who the hell are you?" McIlroy repeated, a little less confidently.

Mr. Green chose that moment to sit up and throw a kick towards Sherlock.

The detective had sidestepped to avoid the blow, but Green clipped Ms. Frasier, throwing Sherlock off balance. With a whoop, McIlroy darted past the Doctor and made for John. Sherlock struck his own captive with the butt of the gun and dropped her to the floor. Green scrambled to his knees and seized Sherlock's wrist. There was a short scuffle, and then the gun tumbled from the detective's grasp.

Unnoticed amidst the fighting, the Doctor swept forward and reached a hand down to John. The injured man was on all fours, and accepted the help. "Quickly now," urged the Doctor, helping him to his feet. "Careful."

"Sherlock…" John rasped, leaning heavily on the Doctor, who ushered him back against the wall.

Sherlock spun, locked body to body with McIlroy. The two traded vicious punches. Mr. Green slid across the floor to the dropped gun. The detective slammed a knee into McIlroy's groin and the man doubled over. Sherlock tossed him to the floor and stepped back.

Click. Mr. Green cocked the gun. "Ha," he panted. "The great Sherlock Holmes." Green bared his teeth. "I'll make sure death sticks this time."

Sherlock took one more careful step back, slowly, to stand beside John and the Doctor. Right in the spot where the Sontaran had first appeared.

"And, that's my cue!" trilled the Doctor, pulling out his mysterious silver tool. With a green twinkle and a high-pitched buzz, the device flashed about in the Doctor's hand, and a low thrum surrounded the trio. Sherlock winced as it pressed in on his ears. The thrum rose to a howl, blinding light flared, and the room vanished from around them.


	4. Chapter 4 - A Hurried Reunion

Has anyone who's written the eleventh doctor noticed just how difficult it is to describe his mannerisms? I've kind of given up and am leaving it to the reader to picture the quite distinct way he moves. With any luck, you're all as whovian as I am, and can manage conjuring up Matt Smith just fine. ;)

* * *

The cacophonous whirl ended as quickly as it had begun. Sherlock blinked in bewilderment.

The creaking townhouse had vanished. The trio was standing in darkness, but for a slice of pale blue light seeping through a doorway. The floor was grated iron, black and cold. Matching shelving stuffed with boxes lined the walls. Strange letters, blocky and foreign, neatly marked the containers. The space was cramped, and the cool air carried a slightly metallic scent. Sherlock registered every detail in an instant.

Clearly, they had moved. The Doctor, and the 'Sontaran,' had used some kind of device to transport them on the spot. How it worked, although certainly fascinating, was of no relevance at this juncture. Considering the physical environment, their new location was likely belonging to the Sontaran, and given the creature's demonstrated stance towards the detective, it was safe to assume this was hostile territory. A storage cupboard in hostile territory.

John's tiny groan snapped Sherlock from his reverie, and the injured man's knees buckled.

"John!" Sherlock caught his friend before he could fall, and lowered him gently to the floor. With careful precision, the detective turned John's head and examined the cut and bruise.

"You're alive," John whispered.

"Obviously."

The Doctor flapped a hand at them, indicating quiet, while he peered around the edge of the door.

"You…" John closed his eyes tiredly. "_…Bastard._"

A smile flickered beneath high cheekbones. Long fingers lightly parted John's hair, following the line of the bloody cut. "Hold still."

"You're alive."

"_Yes,_ John. Hold still."

"All…all this time." John swallowed.

The detective ignored this. A pause stretched between them while he worked. Sherlock noted that the floor was humming, almost imperceptibly.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John's eyes opened wearily and searched the detective's icy ones.

Sherlock gave John a flat look. "Seriously? Have you noticed today's events at all? Or have you been taking stupid lessons since I've last seen you?"

The Doctor looked over sharply.

John's mouth twisted in a bitter frown and he looked away.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. It was as much of an apology as John was going to get. "I couldn't," the detective said, drumming up some patience. "It would have given the game away."

"_What_ game?"

"My death. Moriarty's plan. My suicide sealed Moriarty's illusion, my public downfall."

"But you could've just –"

"I _couldn't_. Moriarty's men were set to kill Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you, if I didn't die. Moriarty shot himself before I could use him to call them off." The detective sat back on his heels. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

John blinked a few times, looking up at Sherlock. "You…faked your own death to protect us."

"Yes. Are you hurt anywhere else?" His wintry eyes whisked impassively up and down John's tattered clothes.

John swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat before answering. "No, I'm – I'm alright."

The detective stared hard at his friend. The smallest of creases between his dark brows betrayed his distress.

"I'm alright, Sherlock," John repeated softly.

"Okay, you two," the Doctor stage-whispered, "I've got a plan. Well, I say plan. I mean idea. Tentative. In progress." He looked through the crack again for a half second before turning back to the two Londoners. "We've teleported to the –"

"To a storage cupboard on the Sontaran ship, yes," Sherlock drawled.

"– the Sontaran's sh…how did you know that?" The Doctor looked thoughtfully at the detective for a moment. "Have you met Sontarans before?"

Sherlock looked exasperated. "No. I observe and draw conclusions from the obvious."

"Oh, I _see._ A genius. You haven't heard of Rattigan's Academy, have you, Mr. Smith?"

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and no I haven't. Is it relevant?"

"Sherlock it is. No, no it isn't particularly relevant. Simple matter of what could have been a most curious connection, but there we are. I suppose it remains to be seen. History repeats itself, or something, that's another phrase I've never gotten…"

"Your plan," John prompted. With a hand from Sherlock he sat up.

"Ah!" The Doctor rubbed his hands together. "Yes. Well, you see, just outside that door is the teleportation deck. I initiated the teleport back on Earth, but I managed to distort the quantum particle relay field into momentary lateral diffusion upon arrival, so we materialized in this closet instead of out there." He peered through the crack again. "The Sontaran and the four humans from the house on Earth have followed us here. In order to get by them all –"

"This way," Sherlock said curtly.

"What?"

The detective was holding open a little metal hatch, not unlike an oven door, in the far wall. "Escape route. Garbage chute."

"How do you know –" John began.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sticky residue about the edges, putrid smell, scuffed interior, waist high on a Sontaran. Garbage chute. Now get in."

A blaring klaxon erupted into existence. Red light flooded the little room. The Doctor's gaze darted about anxiously beneath his thick chestnut hair. Bellowing Sontaran voices could barely be heard above the clamor.

"Okay. Okay, in!" the Doctor agreed.

With a whirl of his dark coat, the detective slid fluidly into the chute. The Doctor leant John a hand up into the little space, and locked the closet door with his sonic device just before following suit.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Rubbish Chute Fall

Thanks all for sticking with, and for the reviews so far! Any and all feedback is really helpful.

* * *

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust as he slid down the incline feet-first.

"Geronimooo!" cried the doctor, his voice gaily bouncing off the metal.

The dark interior wreaked havoc with Sherlock's senses, but he knew better than to waste time trying to see. He let his fingers trail along the cool siding as the three of them accelerated downward. The chute rattled and clanged sporadically, rumbling with the pulse of life on the ship. Warm air, sickly and pungent, rolled up the shaft.

"Light ahead!" called John. "Our exit?"

The detective opened his eyes. Flickers of orange below.

"No!" Sherlock slammed his feet against the sides and braced himself. First John, then the Doctor, collapsed on top of him, and he grunted with the effort of remaining wedged. "No. It's fire!"

John and the Doctor peered over each other past Sherlock to the light below. "Incendiary carbonite recycling system," sighed the Doctor. "I should have known."

"Well, it doesn't sound promising. Let's find another trash hatch and get out that way." John sounded winded.

Sherlock was about to reply when a brief dash of light heralded the entry of fresh refuse just above them. With a heavy grumble the mess sank towards the trio.

"Go, go!" the Doctor yelped. "Quickly! Find a hatch!"

Sherlock loosened his grip and resumed his slide. The bulky debris above was picking up speed. Bits of broken hardware rained down from above as it knocked against the chute walls.

Sherlock's fingers abruptly swept across an irregularity in the metal siding. "Stop!" he called, throwing his feet against the walls again. John thumped into him once more, the Doctor not far behind. The detective ground his teeth together and held on. "A hatch. Just above me, just there."

The Doctor fumbled along the siding. "Here –" he started, pushing the panel outward, but a chunk of technological flotsam slammed into his shoulder, turning the rest of his sentence into a cry of surprise.

Sherlock's feet slipped a few inches beneath the transferred impact. "Quickly!" he growled.

With a grunt of effort, the Doctor pulled himself back up to the hatch and tumbled out of the chute into the room beyond. His big hands rapidly reappeared. "Come on!"

John reached up and, grabbing his wrist, was dragged out of the shaft as well.

Sherlock struggled to work his way back up the chute to the opening. The Doctor's wristwatch glittered in the orange firelight from below. Chunks of plastic and metal pinged off the walls as the detective grabbed hold and hauled himself out of the chute. Sherlock's feet had hardly cleared the opening when the pile of electronic trash lumbered by, rattling the shaft and clunking noisily on its way down into the bowels of the ship.

The three men sat for a brief moment, sprawled on the floor, catching their breath. It was the Doctor who leapt up first, clapping his hands together and flicking his hair out of his eyes with a practiced toss of the head. "Right!"

Sherlock smoothly got to his feet, adjusting his coat as he lengthened into his full stature. His icy gaze swept about the room. The alarm continued in the distance, but this room was unoccupied. Rounded metal walls. Evenly spaced fluorescents. Spotless grated floor. Impressive bank of computer paneling. Rows of empty, peculiarly shaped little seats. A large glass surface, perfectly round, in the center. Two cups half empty. A gadget tossed across a keyboard.

"You mentioned two things you have lost," Sherlock observed, walking a slow circle around the glass table. "I suggest you fill us in."

"Really?" The Doctor waved his hands in exasperation. "We were threatened by an alien, materialized on its spaceship, and jumped down a trash chute, and you're asking personal questions?"

"Why not? The way this day is going, these could be the last personal questions you ever get. And unless you really think I'm fool enough to follow you around blindly, I'm not about to risk our lives without knowing more and drawing my own conclusions as opposed to following your whimsically shortsighted approach."

The Doctor looked affronted. "My goodness, someone needs to relax!" He turned to one of the computers, cutting off Sherlock's hot reply. "Two friends of mine, and some people I was helping, have all been captured by this Sontaran battle fleet. My own, er, spaceship is here on this craft too, which is how I got in, but my friend set her to be invisible, and…" He scratched his head. "Well, I've sort of lost it."

John suppressed a chuckle from his spot on the floor.

"Anyway, we'll rescue my friends, find my ship, and persuade the Sontarans to leave Earth alone. Easy."

"I hardly think the Sontarans will just allow us to walk around, give us your friends and then go home. Their…quaint demeanor notwithstanding."

"No," the Doctor mused. His fingers danced across the keyboard, which blipped and beeped happily in response. "Your Mr. McIlroy was apparently supposed to reveal the extent of Earth's defenses in exchange for help tracking down…well, eliminating you, it appears." The Doctor squinted at the screen. "This McIlroy was in way over his head."

"Almost everyone always is," Sherlock agreed dismissively.

John cleared his throat as he limped over to the pair of them. "Doctor, where are your friends stuck?"

"The prison section is on the opposite side of the ship. We can't get across right now without being noticed, but we can distract them well enough." With a flourish he hit one last key.

A loud whooshing noise and a heavy groaning from the very foundations of the ship had Sherlock and John staring about, and alarms anew followed hard on its heels. The Doctor squirmed in delight. "I jettisoned the entire set of escape pods from the starboard deck and released the stabilizing magnetization field on the fighter craft bay. Whammo!" He fist-pumped the air. "Sonta-ha ha ha!"

He looked proudly back and forth between the computer and the detective. The latter remained completely impassive.

"No?" The Doctor wilted beneath Sherlock's haughty gaze.

The computer dinged once more and projected an image into the air. A woman and a man were together in a cell; the woman appeared comatose, the man standing at the door, unperturbed. The adjacent cell was empty, but some kind of shimmer was distorting the image.

"Oh look, there are my friends! And the Gonsurvian herd as well, lovely. Mind you, I normally would be upset she's unconscious, but the idea of leaving those two in a room alone under normal circumstances is…" The Doctor's voice faded into a hoarse whisper. "…perhaps even worse."

"I'm sorry, who are they?" asked John.

"River Song and Captain Jack Harkness." The Doctor abruptly spun around and clapped a hand on each Londoner's shoulder. "Shall we go get them?"


End file.
